Onjalazbroz- Testing the Foundation of Knowledge

Today, the earth trembles beneath the weight of our collective grief. Another giant has joined the ancestors - Robert Gabriel Mugabe, the last in a fading lineage of true African liberators. His passing marks not just the end of an era, but perhaps the extinction of a certain breed of leader: the unapologetic Pan-African warrior. The Fallen Pantheon Mugabe now takes his rightful place among the martyred champions of our continent: Patrice Lumumba - murdered for Congo's resources Thomas Sankara - gunned down for daring to imagine Burkina Faso's self-sufficiency Kwame Nkrumah - overthrown for uniting Africa Muammar Gaddafi - lynched for creating an African gold dinar These were not perfect men - but when has perfection ever been the price of liberation? They shared one unforgivable sin: believing Africans deserved more than permanent servitude to Western capital. The Land Question: Mugabe's Unmatched Legacy While Mandela compromised and Kenyatta collaborated, Mugabe wielded l...

It’s been seasons, Yet I haven’t missed her— For you are the garden Where my heart now rests. I. My flower, distant in miles but near in step, You bloom in the chambers of my heart, Rooted deep in my mind’s fertile soil, A perennial presence in my soul’s quiet plot. II. Your voice—honeyed and warm— Sends peace cascading through my veins. When you sigh, "I miss you," Time stumbles. My pulse becomes a wild drum. III. In our sacred nights, I cradle you, A sculptor marveling at his masterpiece: The silk of your pink thighs, The poetry of your curves, Your mouth’s golden nectar— A taste sweeter than stolen butter. IV. You are my torch in the trembling dark. With you, shadows become steps I dare to take. My sun. My dawn. My photosynthesis. You turn my fears into light. V. Now, as night drapes the sky, I trace constellations in your eyes— Dark as the cosmos, bright as streetlights, Twin stars I’d orbit until time collapses.

The sun hung low in the sky, a dull orange ember smoldering behind a haze of dust. Chwa found Bandia perched on the cracked concrete slabs that served as the stairway to their mother’s house. Bandia’s eyes were half-lidded, the whites tinged pink, his gaze drifting lazily over the empty yard. The scent of burnt herbs clung to him—earthy, pungent, familiar. They greeted each other with a loose bump of fists, knuckles barely grazing. Chwa lowered himself beside his brother, the rough concrete biting into his thighs. For a while, neither spoke. The silence between them was comfortable, worn-in, like an old shirt. Finally, Chwa exhaled sharply and said, "Bandia, I think it’s time I started smoking weed." Bandia turned slowly, his lips curling into a knowing smirk. "Oh? And what brought this grand revelation?" Chwa rubbed his palms together, staring at the dirt between his feet. "I used to think I could get through this life sober. Thought if I worked hard, kept my ...